Annabelle stared out of the car window, the hum of the tires on the asphalt blending with the low murmur of her mother and Cathy’s conversation in the backseat.

Their words were soft, almost a soothing lullaby, but her mind was far from at peace.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Natasha’s attack.

Her friend had believed it to be a random act of violence.

She thought it was the work of one of those deranged predators who preyed on women.

One the police had not found yet.

But Annabelle wasn’t convinced.

There was something gnawing at her.

A cold certainty that this wasn’t random.

Despite Dante’s relentless efforts, Tad had...